“A gentleman—­”

“And the only ones on board—­”

“Are the two servants!”

“As long as they don’t notice—­”

“And we do!”

“Perhaps we may get some fun out of it?”

“Extra—­outside our wages.  Would it be called a ’perquisite’?”

“If so, I’m sure we deserve it.”

I sighed, thinking of her ladyship’s transformation, and lacing up her boots.  “Well, there’s a lot to make up for.”

And he gave me another look—­a very nice look, although he could see nothing of me but eyes and one third of a nose.  “If I can ever at all help to make up, in the smallest way, you must let me try,” he said.

I ceased to think that his profile was cross, or even stern.

I was glad that the chauffeur and I were in the same box—­I mean, the same car.

CHAPTER VII

All the same, I wondered a great deal how he came there, and I hoped that he was wondering the same sort of thing about me.  In fact, I laid myself out to produce such a result.  That is to say, I took some pains to show myself as little like the common or parlour lady’s-maid as possible.  I never took so much pains to impress any human being, male or (far less) female, as I took to impress that mere chauffeur—­the very chauffeur I’d been lying awake at night dreading as the most objectionable feature in my new life.

All the nice things I’d thought of by the way, before we introduced ourselves to each other, I trotted out (at least, as many as I had presence of mind to remember); and though I’m afraid he didn’t pay me the compliment of trying to “brill” in return, I told myself that it was not because he didn’t think me worth brilling for, but because he’s English.  It never seems to occur to an Englishman to “show off.”  I believe if Sir Samuel Turnour’s chauffeur, Mr. What’s-his-name, knew twenty-seven languages, he could be silent in all of them.

He did let me play the car’s musical siren, though; a fascinating bugbear, supposed to warn children, chickens, and other light-minded animals that something important is coming, and they’d better look alive.  It has two tunes, one grave, one gay.  I suppose we would use the grave one if the creature hadn’t looked alive?

Although he didn’t say much, the chauffeur (or “shuvvie” as he scornfully names himself) knew all about Robert Macaire and Gaspard De Besse—­knew more about them than I, also their escapades on this road over the Esterels, and in the mountain fastnesses, when highwaymen were as fashionable as motor-cars are now.  I’d forgotten that it was this part of the world where they earned their bread and fame; and was quite thrilled to hear that the ghost of De Besse is supposed to keep on, as a permanent residence, his old shelter cave near the summit of strangely shaped Mont Vinaigre.  I’m sure, though, even if we’d passed his pitch at midnight instead of midday, he wouldn’t have dared pop out and cry “Stand and deliver!” to a sixty-horsepower Aigle.